


The Hollow Way

by Suzie_Shooter



Series: Midsomer Musketeers [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Murder Mystery, Nightmares, References to Addiction, Sexual Content, Sharing a Bath, Sleeping Pills, Supernatural Elements, secondary pairing: d'artagnan/constance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 15:31:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13573518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suzie_Shooter/pseuds/Suzie_Shooter
Summary: Sequel toThe Gallows Tree.Detective Inspector Porthos Du Vallon is called in to investigate a fatal car crash, where the driver involved reported swerving to avoid a ghostly coach and horses. But are the nightmares Athos starts having shortly afterwards just a psychological symptom of his ongoing recovery from a breakdown, or has something more sinister followed them home from the crime scene?





	1. Chapter 1

The church clock was striking eleven, and the village of Owlbrook was settled in for the night. Lights showed in windows here and there and the pub still held a smattering of drinkers, but for the most part the population of early-rising commuters and early-to-bed pensioners had turned in already.

Wilfred’s Cottage, just down from the church, was one of those still showing a light. The remains of a meal littered the table in the kitchen but the occupants had long since moved to the more comfortable sitting room, where they were currently entwined on the leather sofa and necking like teenagers. 

Athos de la Fère, owner of said cottage, and his relatively new boyfriend Porthos du Vallon had spent several pleasant evenings in each other’s company over the last two months, and while they’d taken things slowly at first, both men sensed it wouldn’t be much longer before Porthos inevitably ended up staying the night. 

Tonight though Porthos was on call, and while he’d been happy enough to remain sober was sincerely hoping nothing actually happened to drag him away from Athos’ snug sitting room. 

As if to spite him, barely had the thought passed through his mind than Porthos’ mobile started ringing.

Porthos groaned, burying his face in Athos’ shoulder and swearing. Athos gave a quiet laugh, patting him on the back. “You’d better answer it. It might be important.”

“I am so sorry.” Porthos kissed him again for good measure and pulled out his phone, climbing off the sofa and pacing out into the hallway to take the call. When he came back he looked both deeply serious and highly irritated.

“You have to go?” Athos guessed, getting to his feet.

“Yeah. Sorry.” Porthos gave a rueful laugh, pulling him into a hug. “Told you I’d be a pain to date.”

“It’s alright. I understand.” Athos managed a smile. “Go fight crime.”

“Yeah, well. Not so much that,” Porthos admitted, pulling on his coat. “Reports of a car crash,” he said heavily. “Head on collision. Not far from here, as it happens. Which is the one questionable plus point in what promises to be a far more hideous night than the one I’d envisaged.”

“Fatalities?” Athos ventured, wondering at the need for a detective inspector at an RTA, and Porthos gave a short nod.

“Sounds like it. Look, sorry Athos, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Why don’t you come back here afterwards, if it’s that close?”

Porthos looked surprised, then winced. “Um - ”

“Just to sleep, I mean. The spare room’s made up. I just thought – maybe you’d prefer it to going home alone after dealing with something like that.”

“Don’t reckon I’ll be very good company,” Porthos admitted dubiously.

“That’s not the point.”

“It’d be late. Really late. You might be asleep.”

“I’ll leave the door on the latch.”

That made Porthos smile. “As a representative of Her Majesty’s police force, I can hardly recommend that. Even round here. Especially round here.”

“I’ll be awake,” Athos promised. “Trust me, if I don’t take a pill I’m awake till the early hours anyway. Gives me a reason to avoid them for once.”

“Well. Are you sure?” Porthos tried to hide the longing in his voice. Athos was right, the thought of driving miles back to an empty flat afterwards was unappealing in the extreme, but on the other hand they hadn’t been seeing each other all that long, and he worried that to lay too much of the job on Athos too early would put him off.

“Certain.” Athos kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll be awake. Just let yourself in. Whatever time it is.”

\--

It was almost three thirty when Porthos quietly opened the front door, sidling into the hall and clicking the lock down behind him with a disapproving shake of the head.

The lights were on, and after a moment Athos appeared at the top of the stairs in pyjamas.

“Hey.” He padded down in bare feet and gave Porthos a sympathetic smile. “How did it go?”

“Grim.” Porthos looked tired and beaten, and Athos’ heart went out to him.

“Come here.” He drew Porthos into a hug and squeezed him tight. “You staying? Can you have a drink now?”

Porthos nodded wearily and Athos lead him into the sitting room and poured him a large whisky.

“Here. Get that down you.” Athos hung up Porthos’ coat and sat down next to him, taking hold of one cold hand. “Want to talk about it?” he offered. “If you’re allowed to, I mean.”

“You don’t want hear it,” Porthos sighed, then looked up. “Athos – promise me something?”

“What?”

“You never drive on those pills of yours?” He’d seen first hand how woolly Athos could be in the morning after taking them, and was suddenly afraid of what he might be doing in that state.

“No. Never.” Athos shook his head. “I find it hard enough walking some mornings, no way am I getting behind the wheel like that.”

Porthos nodded, relieved and also now vaguely worried he’d spoken out of turn. “Sorry.”

“That’s okay.” Athos smiled. “I’ve got nothing to hide.” Porthos didn’t smile back, and he belatedly worked out what might have prompted such a question. “Was it bad?” he asked gently.

“Head-on smash,” Porthos said eventually, his determination not to unburden himself on Athos crumbling in face of the need to do exactly that. “Two cars. We think it was a patch of black ice. Driver of one car’s in hospital, but they don’t think he’ll make it. The rest of them - ” he broke off, drained his glass. 

“Dead?” Athos guessed, and Porthos nodded heavily.

“Four of them. Two - ” he broke off again, sounding choked, and cleared his throat. “Two were children.”

“Oh Porthos.” Athos moved closer and took him into his arms again. No wonder Porthos looked shaken. He could only imagine the carnage he’d had to face, and the toll it would have taken.

For a moment Porthos clung to him, relieved that after his initial exclamation of sympathy Athos had stopped talking, rather than bombarding him with questions or empty words. Silent comfort was what he needed right now, and he didn’t know how Athos had sensed that, but was infinitely grateful that he had.

When he pulled back he looked stronger, but still dog-tired and Athos stroked a hand down his arm. “Why don’t you get some rest? I stuck a hot water bottle in the spare bed so it should be nice and warm to get in.” He hesitated. “Or you’re welcome to come in with me?”

Porthos smiled, but shook his head. “Thanks, but I’ll crash in the spare room if that’s okay. I just want to get my head down.”

“Sure.” They parted on the landing, Athos having made Porthos promise to come and find him if he needed anything, on the grounds he was likely to still be awake.

Stripping down to t-shirt and boxers, Porthos climbed gratefully into the single bed and turned out the light. He wondered how Athos functioned on so little sleep, then realised he probably just slept the morning away, having nothing to get up for. He’d told Porthos he was trying to gradually wean himself off the sedatives, but it had clearly left him with a fucked up sleep pattern.

Porthos rolled over and tried to empty his mind. He was exhausted, but now he was lying down his brain insisted on replaying everything he’d witnessed that night, and it wasn’t comfortable viewing.

An hour later when he still hadn’t managed a wink of sleep Porthos got up again and tiptoed to the bathroom for a piss. On his way back he realised that Athos’ light was still on and his door ajar, and he bit his lip.

\--

Athos looked up from his book at the light tap on the door and smiled when Porthos’ head appeared cautiously in the gap. “Hello. Everything alright?”

“Yeah. Just can’t sleep. Saw your light was still on.” Porthos hesitated. “Don’t suppose that offer of your bed’s still open is it?”

“Of course it is.” Athos put his book down and took off his glasses, pulling back the duvet invitingly. Porthos climbed in beside him, self-conscious but grateful now for the company.

“Thanks. Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Athos lay down beside him and once he was settled, turned out the light.

“You don’t have to stop reading because of me,” Porthos protested, immediately feeling guilty.

“It’s fine. Really.” Athos reached out in the dark and stroked his fingers over Porthos’ shoulder. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Porthos’ voice was muffled by the pillow but it didn’t sound all that convincing, and Athos shuffled closer, wary of seeming pushy but wanting to offer comfort. He tentatively slipped an arm round Porthos’ waist and settled against his back. 

“Is this okay? Tell me if you’d rather I didn’t,” Athos whispered. 

In answer Porthos found Athos’ hand with his own and squeezed it. “Nah. It’s nice. Sorry, I’m being hopeless.”

“No you’re not.” Reassured that Porthos didn’t mind his proximity, Athos snuggled closer and hugged him. He knew from experience just how hard it was to admit to any kind of vulnerability, and guessed that in the police force, especially for a man of mixed-race out here in the predominantly white commuter belt it was probably far worse. 

He was glad Porthos had agreed to come back here, glad he’d made the spur-of-the-moment offer. It felt strange, settling down to sleep with someone before – well – sleeping with them, but in a way rather nice. They’d both approached this relationship with caution; Athos was still recuperating from a mental breakdown, and Porthos had been bitten once too often by partners getting fed up with his erratic hours and frequent cancellations. So far, and to mild surprise on both sides, it seemed to be working.

\--

For a moment upon waking the next morning Athos was surprised to find Porthos lying next to him, then the events of the previous night came flooding back. Porthos was still fast asleep, so Athos slid carefully out of bed and went to the bathroom, before going downstairs to make some tea.

By the time he brought the two mugs back upstairs Porthos was awake and sitting up.

“Morning.” Porthos took the mug he was offered with a smile, and Athos climbed back in beside him. “Now that’s what I call service. I’ll have to stay here again.”

“Any time you like,” Athos told him seriously, then smiled. “Sleep okay?”

“In the end, yeah,” Porthos nodded. It had helped, lying next to Athos, more than he was comfortable admitting. “Here, you weren’t awake all night were you?” 

“No. I think I went off pretty quickly after you, as it happens.” 

“You saying I make you drowsy?” Porthos grinned, and Athos smiled back, glad that Porthos seemed in a more cheerful frame of mind than the night before, even if half of it was almost certainly a front.

“I’m saying you’re just what the doctor ordered.” 

\--

Despite Athos’ protests that he’d been up half the night Porthos left early, heading in to check on any overnight developments. He did promise to come back that evening though, and when Athos enquired whether he should replace the hot water bottle in the spare bed, Porthos had just smirked and kissed him.

Pottering about the house that morning Athos found he couldn’t stop the smile that kept creeping back onto his face. The circumstances were obviously awful, but maybe they’d needed a nudge to move them on a stage. 

Mixed in with the anticipation though was a low-level nagging guilt. It had been less than a year since his fiancée had been killed in a road accident – one of the reasons they’d taken things slowly at first – but the aftermath of that and his subsequent breakdown had made it feel rather like he’d lived through a decade of grief in the space of a few months. 

He’d come here to make a fresh start after all, Athos told himself. He hadn’t looked for a new relationship, but circumstances had brought Porthos into his life, and somehow he was still here. All Athos had to do now, he thought with a wry smile, was manage not to fuck things up.

His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of his groceries, and carrying things through to the kitchen Athos reflected what a godsend supermarket deliveries had been. For some time after his arrival here Athos had been reluctant to leave the house at all, experiencing something that wasn’t quite agoraphobia but that had meant that every trip outside and every human interaction had required a conscious effort of will. 

It was one of the things that had oddly worked in their favour when he and Porthos had begun seeing each other. Porthos freely admitted that he’d screwed up several previous relationships by either being too tired to want to go anywhere after work, or by being called away from or not turning up to those dates he had arranged. The fact that Athos didn’t particularly want to go anywhere and was entirely happy to spend quiet evenings in with him felt like some kind of miracle. 

At the same time, it was Porthos who was gradually encouraging Athos to venture out a bit more. They’d been for a few drinks together, a couple of drives, a few walks when the still-wintery spring weather permitted. Athos felt steadier in Porthos’ company, and was grateful both for the quiet pushing of his self-imposed limits, and that Porthos never made a thing of it when Athos couldn’t face going somewhere.

As Athos stowed things away in the kitchen cupboards he caught the scent of woodsmoke and lifted his head, looking around as if he might see someone in the room with him. When he’d first moved in here he’d become more than half-convinced that the house was haunted, repeatedly catching half-seen shadows and movements in empty rooms and this same smell of woodsmoke, that came and went at random in a house where there’d been no open fire for decades. 

Researching the history of the house had resulted in Athos associating the ephemeral presence with Wilfred, a previous owner who’d died there, but he mostly kept his thoughts on this subject to himself. The last thing he needed right now was his mental stability being called into question again.

Still, it had been a while since he’d noticed any sign of Wilfred’s presence, to the extent he really had been starting to wonder if he’d imagined it all after all. The sudden sharp tang of woodsmoke in his nostrils had brought him up sharp, as if someone had tapped him on the shoulder.

Of course, it could just be a bonfire, or someone else’s chimney. You could smell exactly the same thing in a dozen places around the village at this time of year. Just – not normally here.

Did ghosts have holidays, he wondered vaguely. Presumably time worked differently on the other side.

“Where’ve you been then?” Athos asked out loud, shaking his head at himself even as he did so. You weren’t supposed to indulge these sort of fancies. That way lead the nice quiet clinic and the people with soft voices. He’d had enough of that.

There was, naturally, no reply. Athos sighed, and had just turned to put something under the sink when there was a sudden bang behind him and a rattling noise like hail.

He spun round in alarm, wondering whatever had happened. His first thought was that the lightbulb had exploded but no, it was still in one piece, lighting up the room on this dull March morning. 

Had he imagined the way the light level had violently dipped then? Must have.

Taking a step something crunched underfoot and Athos looked down, finally realising what had caused the noise. A full packet of dried pasta had fallen off the shelf of the dresser, bursting open on the stone flags and scattering its contents across the room.

Athos relaxed a fraction, feeling faintly ridiculous that he was so jumpy. Except – how the hell had the packet fallen that far from the shelf? 

He fetched a dustpan, uneasily sweeping the debris into a pile. It was silly. It had fallen, that was all. His sense of a presence in the house had only ever been that; it had never felt – intrusive. Physical. 

Threatening.

“Stop it.” Addressing himself, out loud, sternly. He was only going to scare himself by giving things headroom.

Pushing away the uncomfortable, _unreasonable_ thoughts, Athos dumped the pasta and the broken bag in the bin, washed his hands. Noticed they were shaking.

“For fuck’s sake.”

He pulled out a chair, sat down at the table. Wanted nothing more than to leave the room now, but was determined he wasn’t going to be chased out of his own kitchen by a fucking _phantasm_ , whether it was all in his head or not.

Especially if it was in his head.

Athos gave a dry, croaky laugh of disbelief at himself. Was he really thinking it was _better_ to have an actual ghost? 

Well, yes. Frankly. 

He sat up straighter, and glared round the room. 

“What’s your problem then?”

Wondering, even as he said it, whether he knew. Thinking back to the first time he’d kissed Porthos and suddenly remembering the way a lightbulb had blown. They’d joked then about Wilfred not approving, neither of them really meaning it. What if it had been closer to the truth than they knew? Last night they’d shared a bed for the first time. What if – ?

Athos shook himself, equally irritated by his stupid fancies and the idea that he might be sharing a house with a homophobic ghost.

“You don’t like it?” he declared to the empty kitchen. “Tough. This is my house now. You got a problem with what we’re doing, well don’t bloody watch us then!”

Athos broke off again. The idea of them actually being watched hadn’t really occurred to him before. He swallowed, telling himself not to be so silly. He had no real proof the cottage was haunted, and even if it was he had no reason to suppose any spirits would have a prurient interest in what he was doing, or who he was doing it with. The dresser shelf was uneven, that was all. He hadn’t put the packet on properly. All in his head after all. 

He got up and left the room, forcing himself not to run.

\--  
When Porthos came back that evening he seemed rather subdued, but he also walked in with what was clearly an overnight bag, and gave Athos an unusually shy smile when he kissed him hello.

Over supper Porthos deflected Athos’ tentative efforts to get him to talk about whatever was preoccupying him, but once they were settled in the sitting room afterwards he finally started opening up.

“You believe in ghosts, don’t you?” Porthos asked, apparently randomly, while Athos was fixing them both drinks. 

“I was having an argument with one just this morning,” Athos muttered, and Porthos frowned at him.

“Eh?”

“Nothing. Yes, I suppose so. Go on, why do you ask?”

“It’s just – the driver of that second car – he passed away this morning.”

“I’m sorry.” Athos perched on the arm of Porthos’ chair, rested a hand on his shoulder. Porthos covered it with his own absently, staring into space.

“He regained consciousness before he died. Just briefly. The officer I posted there overnight got a bit of a statement from him. He said – he said he swerved to avoid a vehicle driving straight at him, on his side of the road.”

“The other car?”

“No, that’s just it, they were in the right lane when he went into them. And there was no evidence of a third vehicle being involved. It’s just – no, it’s bonkers.”

“What did he see?”

Porthos looked up at him, frowning. “He said he saw a coach and horses.”

Athos blinked. “Good grief.”

“Yeah. I mean – he was making it up, right? Trying to deflect blame, maybe.”

“Doesn’t make any sense though,” Athos said. “If he’d claimed he’d swerved to avoid a fox or a badger – even another car – but he must have known how outlandish it sounded. Suggests he was telling the truth. At least as he saw it.”

“Athos I’ve been over the site, there’s not so much as a hoof print!”

“Do you think it was a ghost then?” Athos asked curiously, Porthos not having shown any previous inclination to believe in the supernatural generally or Wilfred in particular.

“No, course not.” Porthos shifted uncomfortably. “I mean, that’d be daft, right? He must have imagined it. Blow to the head when he crashed maybe. Confused him.”

“You want me to ask around?” Athos offered, guessing Porthos’ difficulty. “See if there’s any local rumours about that stretch of road?” Ask the questions Porthos couldn’t possibly ask as part of a formal investigation.

Porthos looked awkward. “Wouldn’t hurt I s’pose,” he mumbled. Athos slid off the arm of the chair onto his lap. 

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Porthos asked, sounding prickly.

“It means I know how easy it is to say you’re fine when you’re not.”

Porthos shrugged. “I’m a big boy. I’ve seen a lot of shit, okay? Comes with the territory.”

“And does it ever get easier?”

Porthos hesitated. “No, not really.” There was a sad pause. “It’s worse when there’s kids involved, you know?”

Athos pulled him into his arms and held him tightly and for a while Porthos let him, just breathing slowly and hugging him back. “Thanks,” he muttered, finally pulling away.

“I’m here, okay? If you need me. If I can help.”

Porthos cupped Athos’ crotch, being deliberately lewd. “Offering to cheer me up are you?”

Athos smiled, for now allowing him the swerve in direction. “Finally decided you know me well enough, have you?” he countered.

“Maybe some days just make you realise you shouldn’t be wasting time,” Porthos said, the tough mask slipping a little to give Athos a glimpse of the pain behind it.

“What are you waiting for then?” Athos leaned down, kissed him deliberately hard. Porthos pulled him closer, working a hand down the front of his trousers. 

Athos caught his breath as warm fingers crept into his pants. He shifted in Porthos’ lap, giving him a better angle and half closed his eyes as Porthos palmed his cock. Porthos lifted his face for a kiss, enjoying the sensation of Athos stiffening in his hand.

“You want to take this upstairs?” Athos asked, a little breathlessly.

“Mmn.” Porthos nodded approval, nuzzling kisses into Athos’ neck. He was already just as hard without being touched and eager to take things further.

Upstairs they undressed and climbed into Athos’ bed, exploring each other’s bodies with a building excitement and heated kisses.

“How did you want to do it?” Athos asked quietly, when it had got to the stage it was clear they both wanted to move things along a notch.

“Can I fuck you?” Porthos asked under his breath, and Athos nodded, kissing him again. 

“Yes. I’d like that.” He produced condoms and lube from the bedside drawer, then looked embarrassed. “Now this looks like I’ve been plotting.”

Porthos gave him a delighted grin. “I like a man who’s prepared.” He bore Athos down to the bed again, kissing him with a heady passion. 

“Talking of prepared – when were you last with a man?” Porthos murmured after a while, recalling that Athos had been engaged to a woman not all that long ago and realising they’d never discussed any partners before that.

“It’s been a while,” Athos admitted. “Be gentle?”

“Of course.” Porthos slowly stroked Athos’ cock with pleasure. “Tell me, if I hurt you?”

Athos nodded, and Porthos kissed the self-conscious smile from his lips until they were both laughing.

The sex was slow, and warm, and just what both of them needed. 

Afterwards, to his surprise Athos actually found himself drowsing into sleep not long after Porthos, having been expecting to lie awake as usual. His dreams though, considering the state of exhausted contentment he’d fallen asleep in, were strangely troubled. 

For what felt like most of the night he found himself walking down dark roads, knowing he was being followed by something. Whatever it was, was never quite seen or heard but he knew it was there, and paced endlessly forward through a building sense of foreboding. 

Athos finally jerked awake in the early dawn, his heart pounding and not quite sure why. Next to him Porthos murmured in his sleep, nestling closer and Athos lay down again, comforted by his presence. Just a dream, but he knew he wouldn’t sleep again that night.

\--


	2. Chapter 2

The following morning Porthos arrived at work in a distinctly jaunty mood that even the prospect of another day working on a multiple fatality case couldn’t put a dent in. He’d just settled into his office with a coffee and a sneaky Mars bar when there was a knock on the open door and he recognised the policewoman he’d assigned to the hospital the night before last.

“Come in, come in.” He waved her inside, experiencing a twinge of guilt. He’d stationed her there to get a statement from the man, and she’d ended up being a witness to his death.

“Elodie, right? What can I do for you?”

“Well sir - ” she hesitated. “After Mr Bowers passed away, in the morning I was sent to inform his next of kin?”

Porthos winced inwardly. That had been a shit shift and no mistake. Still, they’d all had to do it at some point. “Is there a problem?”

Elodie fidgeted nervously, and Porthos had to force himself not to growl at her. “Constable?”

“Well it’s going to sound a bit – I don’t know. I don’t want you to think I’m making something out of nothing.”

“You can speak freely,” Porthos assured her. “I expect everyone here to.”

“Well it was like – I don’t know. Her reaction seemed off somehow.”

“Can take a while to sink in, that kind of news.”

“I know that. It wasn’t disbelief. It was almost like she was _too_ grief-stricken. I’ve broken that kind of news before, I’ve seen denial and I’ve seen hysteria, but this was – it felt practised. You know what I’m saying?”

“I think you need to be plainer, constable. For the avoidance of doubt.”

Elodie took a deep breath. “I’m saying I don’t think it came as a surprise.”

\--

Back in Owlbrook Athos had resolved to do some investigating of his own, and sought out the one person he figured knew the most about the history of the village. However, when he reached the estate agent office he found Sylvie was just stepping out of the door and locking it behind her.

“Hello Sylvie. Closing up?”

She looked round and smiled when she saw who it was. “Hello! Just popping out for something to eat. Did you want me?”

Athos glanced speculatively across the square to the pub. “Tell you what, could I buy you lunch?”

“Err...” she gave him an enquiring look as if wondering what his motivations were, and he held his hands up.

“Ulterior motive I’m afraid. I want to pick your brains.” 

Sylvie smiled. “In that case, why not?”

Having ordered at the bar they settled at a table in the window and Athos looked around with interest. The building was a mish-mash of brickwork and timber-framing, bits of it probably at least Elizabethan. He’d been in here a couple of times with Porthos, but only for a drink.

“If this is the New Inn, what happened to the old one?” Athos wondered aloud, and Sylvie laughed. 

“I think there used to be one out on the London road. No idea what happened to it though. Probably burnt down. Thatch is a bugger.”

“Mmn. Glad I’ve got tiles.” 

“So were you after a lecture on the finer details of Tudor public houses, or was there something else I can help with?”

Athos hesitated. “It’s going to sound a bit odd.”

“When doesn’t it, with you?” Athos looked pained, and she grinned at him. “Go on, what is it this time? Haunted coal-shed? Headless horseman?”

“Close,” Athos admitted, fiddling with his glass and wondering whether it was a good idea to make Sylvie think he was battier than she already did. He didn’t really have any other friends in the village, and Porthos lived a good half-hour drive away. It was nice to think there was someone he could chat to occasionally, and he didn’t want to scare her off. 

Sylvie sensed his reticence, and nudged him. “Go on,” she prompted again. “I’m not taking the piss, I promise. And a lasagne and chips gets you my undivided attention.”

Athos gave in. “You ever hear of any – local legends, say, of a ghostly coach and horses?”

“Why, have you seen one?”

“Not me,” Athos said with a certain amount of relief. “Someone though. Maybe.”

Sylvie shrugged. “It’s a common enough story, but I’ve never heard of anything like it in these parts. Normally a wicked landowner or something, isn’t it? Doomed to travel the same road time after time?”

“Yes, that’s a point,” Athos mused. “Normally a recurring thing, then? So you’d expect there to be a record of other instances, other sightings?”

“Presumably, but I’m not an expert.” Their food arrived, and Sylvie started eating with enthusiasm. “My area’s historical land records, not the paranormal. Have you tried the vicar?”

Athos snorted. “He already thinks I’m mad. And I’m not entirely sure he’s forgiven me for being the one responsible for getting one of his graves dug up.”

“Ninon then?”

“Who?” 

“Ninon De Larroque. Runs the mystic shop on the corner. She’d be my go-to person for any spooky goings on.” 

\--

When they finally emerged back into the sunshine and Sylvie had returned to work, Athos went in search of the shop. He’d vaguely noticed it on his previous forays into the village but had never taken much notice up till now, not having a great need for incense sticks, velvet robes or disturbingly phallic figurines.

When he got there though the shop was closed for lunch, and Athos wondered if anyone in the village ever made any sales at all. With time to kill and a certain amount of warmth in the sunshine for once, Athos wandered back up the road past his house and on into the woods. Ignoring the footpath that ran along behind the nearby houses and eventually behind his own garden, he took the left-hand fork and had soon moved from the darkness of the forestry plantation into mixed woodland. The birds were in full spring voice, and he found he was rather enjoying himself.

The path forked again, one branch leading up towards the old flooded quarry at Butcher's Hollow and one dipping between walls of mossy rock and leading on towards the main road. At one point this had been a tramway, taking carts of stone from the quarry to the railway station five miles away. Before that it had been the line of a much older pathway, possibly prehistoric Sylvie had told him, a trading route between early settlements. 

Over the centuries the level of the path had dropped into the very ground itself, until the sides were bare rock dripping with moisture, topped by bramble and fern covered banks studded with primroses and violets. 

Athos realised he'd walked further than he'd meant to when he heard the hum of traffic up ahead. The path opened out, a solid granite post preventing anyone driving from up it, while leaving access for horses. Athos walked up to where it met the road and noted dark rubber skid marks on the tarmac. Beyond this, the thick leaf-mould under the trees was churned up and Athos realised this must have been the site of the accident. He shuddered, the sun vanishing behind a dark cloud as if in silent echo of his mood.

There was no safe way of walking any further along the steep sided road, clearly originally a continuation of the track he'd been walking. There was a cliff one side, and the ground dropped away steeply on the other to a stream in the valley below. Traffic thundered past, cars going much too fast and big lorries swaying alarmingly. Presumably in the middle of the night it would be a lot quieter, but perhaps that had been the problem, neither driver expecting to meet anyone coming the other way.

Athos retreated back along the footpath, hurrying now in an attempt to regain some warmth. The banks seemed to loom over him, blacker and colder than before, and rustlings in the branches above made him jump. Thorn trees lined the top of the cut, unpleasantly like barbed wire, blocking escape.

Athos mentally shook himself. He didn’t need to escape from anywhere, and a change in the weather was no reason to get jumpy. He forced himself to remain at walking pace, resisting the urge to break into a run. Someone had taken the bend too fast that was all, driving at night, probably tired. People had died there, no wonder the place had a sombre air. There was nothing to be afraid of.

Despite this stern internal talking to, Athos was heartily glad to emerge back into the village. He considered just going home and having a much-needed cup of tea – or something stronger – but decided he might as well see the thing through and traipsed back down the hill. 

This time the shop was open and he went in, picking his way cautiously between a roosting flock of dream-catchers hanging from the ceiling and trying not to knock anything off the perilously over-stacked shelves.

Having achieved the relative safety of the counter, he looked round in hope of assistance. Arrayed before the cash-register was a line of what he could only assume were fertility objects, and he hastily averted his eyes. There was a noticeboard on the wall displaying posters for women's self-defence classes and a multi-faith group, and he read these with a single-minded determination not to look down again. 

"Can I help you?" 

The voice made him jump, and he realised a woman was standing in the shadows to the right of him, blending in against a background of tie-dyed smocks. He suppressed the irrational feeling that she hadn't been there a second ago. 

"Hello. Er. I was after some information, actually. Local history, sort of."

"Do I look like a librarian?"

Athos hesitated. His first impression of her long flowing dress, elaborate hair and feathered earrings was that he'd never seen anyone who looked less like a librarian, but there was something in her haughty upper-class frostiness that made him think again.

He'd hesitated too long, and she was glaring at him. Athos attempted a conciliatory smile.

"What does a librarian look like?" he ventured philosophically. "Anything she wants to, presumably. Or he," he added quickly, sensing that gendered pronouns in here might get him a slap with a ruler. 

"If you're not here to buy something, may I suggest you get to the point?" She settled herself in the chair behind the counter, and looked up at him expectantly. 

"I was looking for Ninon de Larroque."

"You've found her."

"I was wondering - what do you know about the footpath that runs from the end of the village up through the woods? One way goes to the quarry, the other way joins up with the main road."

"Butcher's Hollow? Always been a benighted sort of place." Ninon unconsciously pulled her shawl more tightly around her. "That's an old track that one. Prehistoric, probably. A holloway. Millennia of human activity, slowly leaving a scar on the body of the earth itself. Marks the parish boundary, too." 

"Have you ever heard of it being haunted?"

"No, but I wouldn't be at all surprised if it was. Coffin paths, they used to call them - routes between churches, for burial. Boundaries have always been magical places. Liminal, you know."

Athos nodded vaguely, intending to look it up once he got home rather than admit to ignorance, but she sensed his bafflement.

"Places where the veil is thin. Between this world and the next. You get - crossovers."

"Ghosts?" Athos asked hopefully, but she looked disapproving.

"Sensationalist rubbish mostly, and an unhelpful term covering a whole host of different phenomena. Some are simply harmless echoes. Others - well, the ones where there's an intelligence present, those can be more dangerous. People dabble, you know," she said sternly, fixing him with a sharp look.

"Not me," Athos declared, raising his hands to fend off the disapproval. "Have you ever heard of the village being haunted by a coach and horses?"

To his disappointment she shook her head immediately. 

"No, nothing like that. If I were to be pressed..." she tailed off, clearly wanting to be pressed, and Athos obliged.

"Please. Any information you have on the local area. I'm relatively new here, and I'm very interested in the history of the place. You were suggested to me as someone who knew the most."

Ninon straightened up a little, clearly pleased if not remotely taken in by his flannel.

"Hmph. Well. There's a grey lady at the Manor, and the pub reckons they've got a headless monk upstairs, although I've never heard of a verified first-hand account of anyone seeing him. And there's never been a monastery in the village, so I've no idea where he would have come from anyway. Still, I'm sure he's good for business." She sniffed. 

"So nothing recorded out on the road? Or the - what did you call it? The holloway."

Ninon shook her head. Beads rattled, and a feather drifted floorwards. "Certainly nothing recurring, or I'd certainly have heard. What you describe could be a one off though."

"Could it?"

"Could be a harbinger."

"Like an omen?" Athos hazarded. 

"Exactly." She looked pleased with him for once. "You’ve heard of the Irish bean sidhe, no doubt? The banshee? Heard screaming or crying as a warning of imminent death? Well there's a similar thing that appears as a coachman and horses. Mostly occurs in Irish folklore, it has to be said, although they have been recorded in this country. I suppose on the same grounds, they might appear to someone of Irish blood."

Athos made a mental note to ask Porthos the dead driver's background. This sounded promising. 

“Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”

“Not at all.” Ninon gave him an appraising look. “Perhaps you’d like to come along to the village moot? First Thursday of every month.” She handed him a flyer from a pile next to the till. “You’ll find us very welcoming. And – like minds, perhaps. If you’re open to the otherworld.”

“I’ll certainly think about it. Thank you,” Athos tucked the flyer carefully into his pocket and made his escape, mainly relieved that he’d got away without having to buy any of the alarmingly over-priced ornaments as a gesture of goodwill.

\--

"Here, I'm not going to come round one night and find you frolicking naked round a maypole am I?" Porthos called.

"What _are_ you talking about?" Athos asked, following him into the sitting room to see he'd found the flyer Ninon had handed him. "Oh, that. No, I suspect not. I was just doing some research into your phantom coach and horses. Was the driver Irish, by any chance?"

Porthos frowned. "Irish? I don't think so. Name was Bowers. Lived round here - in the village, actually. His wife runs the tearoom."

"Oh, really?" Athos looked perturbed and Porthos raised his eyebrows.

"Problem?"

"Well, no, it was just - Constance is coming over tomorrow. I was going to take her there for tea. But I suppose it'll be closed, if the poor woman's just been bereaved."

"Mmn. Be interesting to see if it is," Porthos mused.

"What's that supposed to mean? It was an accident. Wasn't it?"

Porthos clammed up again. "Can't talk about it. Sorry."

"Fair enough."

"Sorry." Porthos looked awkward, and Athos kissed him on the cheek.

"It's fine. Really. Lawyer, remember? I know the form." 

Porthos looked relieved that he hadn't taken offence, and pulled Athos into his arms. "I keep forgetting you used to be a high-flyer," he grinned.

"Not all that long ago, either," Athos said quietly. "It's funny, isn't it, when you think about it. How your life can change in a matter of seconds. Just - _seconds_." He looked sombre, his eyes seeing somewhere other than that room. "I mean if either of them had been a few seconds earlier or later that day - I'd be married right now. Still a solicitor. Still in London. I'd never even have heard of you."

Porthos gazed at him sadly, sympathy mingling with the worry that Athos regretted what had been lost. But Athos looked up at him then, his focus drawing back into the room and unexpectedly kissed him, hard.

Startled, Porthos kissed back, instinctively responding to the urgency in him. In a matter of seconds they were sprawled on the couch, exchanging bruising, breathless kisses as they pushed frantically against each other.

Eventually Porthos pulled back a little, half-laughing. "I think you'd better take me to bed," he said. "Before I embarrass meself."

Athos grabbed him by the hand and lead him upstairs without argument. They fell into Athos' bed still half-dressed, tangled and desperate, and the sex that followed was hard and fast. Porthos pounded into him, spurred on by every gasp and groan of approval wrung from Athos’ eager body.

“Fuck,” Porthos breathed, when they were finally lying spent and panting. “You okay?” Conscious not just that Athos hadn’t been in the happiest of moods before they’d done this, but also of how rough he’d just been with him. Athos nodded, apparently still beyond speech but the look he gave Porthos was more reassuring than any number of words, as was the kiss that followed. 

When he’d regained his breath Porthos gathered back Athos into his arms. “That was amazing,” Porthos whispered and they kissed again, lips soft now where before they’d been hard and demanding. 

“I needed that,” Athos admitted under his breath, then gave Porthos a self-conscious smirk. “Although possibly I won’t be able to walk for a week.”

Porthos snorted with laughter and kissed him apologetically. “Sorry about that.”

“Don’t be. It was delicious.” 

Having cleaned up and removed the rest of their clothes, they climbed back into bed and settled down, pleasantly aching and stifling yawns. 

As Athos was drifting off, before the darkness took him he just had time to reflect that sex seemed to be an excellent alternative to sleeping pills.

\--

It hardly felt like he’d been asleep any time at all before Athos found himself walking the same road as before. He’d barely recalled his dreams of the night before, but now the ominous landscape enfolded him with a horrifying familiarity. 

Whereas before the impression of being followed had been only that, this time Athos became aware of a noise behind him on the road, a distant rumbling that was getting gradually louder.

Part of him knew he shouldn’t look round, that to see whatever it was would make it real, give it substance, but he couldn’t stop himself. He turned slowly, feet feeling heavy as lead.

From the darkness emerged a looming shape, a patch of deeper black, moving at speed. A coach, pulled by four huge black horses with feathered plumes, heading straight for him.

Athos started running. The road under his feet was slippery and gave no traction. The hedges crowded in on either side, brambles whipping at his face, catching on his clothes. He could hear the horses’ hooves striking the road, the creak of the carriage, the rumble of the wheels as it drew closer. He tried to run faster, the fear of being trampled warring with the greater fear of being pulled inside that dreadful black interior, but his legs refused to obey and he knew with a dreadful certainty that in another second it was going to catch him.

Athos woke with a start, heart thumping and covered in sweat. Beside him Porthos lay snoring quietly, and he struggled to catch his breath. 

“Just a dream.” Athos looked at the clock. Three AM. Still hours of the night left. Hours in which he could be pulled back into the nightmare.

Trying to ignore the fact his hands were trembling, Athos tipped a pill out of the bottle by the bed and swallowed it dry. He hardly ever dreamed when he was sedated, or if he did he didn’t remember, and this time he was counting on it.

\--


	3. Chapter 3

"Athos?"

Athos surfaced gradually through a bleary fog and blinked up at a hovering shape that slowly resolved into Porthos' smiling face. After a second he realised Porthos was fully dressed, and struggled to sit up. 

"What time is it?"

"Seven. Sorry, I've got to go to work."

"God, sorry, you should have woken me."

Porthos smiled. "You were dead to the world. Look, don't get up, I just came to say goodbye. Um - I could come back later? Or will you have Constance here tonight?"

"No, no she's just popping by for tea on her way back from a meeting. Yes, come round."

"Are you sure? I don't want to be a nuisance." 

"You're not. You're absolutely not. Come round," Athos insisted, and Porthos kissed him.

"Alright, I will. See you later then."

Once he'd gone Athos lay there for a while longer in a muzzy doze, but proper sleep had escaped him and eventually he clambered out of bed and into his dressing gown.

Downstairs he deduced from the mug and plate placed neatly in the drainer that Porthos had found his own breakfast, and then realised not only that but Porthos had washed up and put away all the dinner things from the night before that they'd abandoned in their haste to fall into bed.

"How about that eh?" Athos announced to the faint whiff of woodsmoke hanging around the kitchen. "He washes up and everything."

Switching the kettle on Athos was puzzled to see a second mug with a teabag waiting on the counter, then realised this must have been for him. He experienced a twinge of guilt, as he wondered how many times Porthos had tried to wake him.

\--

He hadn't dreamed again after taking the sedative, but the feeling of unease from such a vivid nightmare stayed with him most of the day. Doing his best to shake it off, he walked out into the afternoon sunshine to meet Constance.

On his way to the tearoom he passed Ninon going into her shop, and she waved him over.

"I've been asking around about your phantom coach," she announced, cutting through his greeting. "Nobody else has heard of one being seen in this area. May I ask - are they still with us? The person who reported it?"

"Er - no. No, he's dead," Athos admitted. He wondered if she was doubting the veracity of the claim, but to his surprise she looked relieved.

"That's possibly for the best."

"Whatever do you mean?"

"Well, these things - they're not always terribly discriminatory. Do you know what a psychopomp is? It's an entity that escorts a soul to the afterlife," she continued, before he could answer. "If they've come for a soul, and the person concerned somehow manages to evade them - well, they're not all that fussy. A soul's a soul, if you see what I mean. But if the course of fate has been served, well - there's less chance of - _transference_ , as it were."

"You mean - it could come after someone else?" Athos asked, a sense of dull horror gnawing at his insides.

"It's possible. Nobody else has seen one, have they?" she asked sharply.

"No - no," Athos muttered. "Someone - might have dreamed about one?" he ventured.

"Ah, now dreams are a whole other realm of possibility. We're actually addressing this as a topic at our next moot. Thursday night, in the church hall. You should come along."

"Thanks. Maybe I will." Athos watched her disappear into the shop and tried to work out if she was genuine or had just done a number on him. As he walked on towards the teashop, he met Sylvie coming out of the convenience store. 

"Something happening in a dream isn't the same as happening in real life, right?" he asked her as she walked past.

Sylvie looked back and grinned at him, amused by the random question. "I don't think so. If it was, I'm fairly sure my love life would be a lot more exciting than it is."

Cheered by the brief encounter, Athos entered the tearooms with a smile on his face. The idea that something in that godforsaken accident blackspot might have attached itself to him, or even to Porthos, and followed one of them home was a creepy one, but it was also hard to countenance on a bright and sunny afternoon with the prospect of cream cakes in his immediate future.

In recognition of the unseasonable warmth Constance was sitting at a table in the pretty courtyard garden, and rose to give him a hug.

"I already ordered, I hope you don't mind," she said. "Two cream teas."

"Sounds good. What am I having?"

"Hey!" She laughed, and whacked him on the arm. 

Athos smiled fondly, remembering how Constance had kept his professional life running smoothly for so many years and then wondering with a pang if he'd ever exploited her good nature. 

"I didn't take advantage of you did I?" he sighed, once they were seated.

Constance gave him an amused look. "Not that I remember. And I think I'd've noticed something like that." 

This finally made Athos laugh out loud. "Not like that! I meant in a work sense. You did everything for me."

"I was paid to. Besides, I'd have soon let you know if I felt you were taking the piss." Constance smiled at him. "And to be fair, you were about the only one of those buggers I could've said that too, as well. No, you trusted me, and you let me organise things my way without interfering. Believe me, that's a trait worth having in a boss." 

Athos studied her thoughtfully. "How's it going?"

"Could be worse. Don't suppose you've had any thoughts about coming back?" she asked hopefully. 

"Mmn. No. Sorry. Not at the moment."

"Oh well. Worth asking." Constance studied him in turn with a critical eye. "You're looking a bit better, anyway. Still tired though."

"Thanks. I think."

"No, it's good. Definite improvement. This new man of yours must be doing you good."

Athos hid a smile. "It's early days, I guess. But yes. We seem to have hit it off." He gave her rather anxious eyes. "You don't think it's too soon?"

Constance, who'd never been terribly keen on Athos' fiancée in the first place, shook her head firmly. "You need someone, you do. Stop you wallowing."

"I do not wallow," Athos protested indignantly, knowing perfectly well that he did, but Constance wasn't listening, her attention having been drawn by someone else.

“Oh no, it’s that ghastly policeman. What’s he doing here?”

Athos looked round in surprise to see who Constance was staring at. He saw a slim young man hovering in the doorway, surveying the tables in the courtyard with a professional eye.

“DS D’Artagnan,” Athos murmured. “One of the owners of this place just died, and from what Porthos let slip, I rather suspect he’s investigating the grieving widow.”

D’Artagnan had caught sight of them and was waving. Athos raised a hand in acknowledgement and he came over to their table.

“Hello! Fancy seeing you here. Mind if I join you?” He sat down without waiting for an invitation, which in the face of Constance’s continuing death-glare Athos reckoned must have taken considerable balls. D’Artagnan had once interviewed Constance in an attempt to dig up background dirt on Athos during an investigation. Athos himself hadn’t been especially bothered, but Constance clearly hadn’t forgiven or forgotten and was stonily impervious to the young man’s charm.

Athos wondered at first if d’Artagnan had made a bee-line for them under instruction from Porthos, perhaps to ensure nothing was said to alert the proprietor to the fact the long arm of the law was taking an interest, but it rapidly became apparent that d’Artagnan was focused solely on Constance. He didn’t seem at all disheartened by his frosty reception, and was chatting away quite happily when the waitress brought over their pot of tea.

"I suppose you'd better bring an extra cup and a plate please," Constance said grudgingly. D'Artagnan immediately looked like he'd won the lottery, and she gave him a quelling look. "Don't get any ideas. I wouldn't see a dog go hungry, and you look like you need feeding up."

This less than glowing endorsement didn't seem to bother d'Artagnan in the slightest, and he happily accepted a scone, loading it up with jam and cream.

"So what brings you here?" Athos asked, having waited until the detective sergeant had his mouth full on general principles.

It looked briefly like d'Artagnan was about to choke in an effort not to spray them both with crumbs, and they watched with interest as he went an intriguing shade of purple. Eventually he managed to swallow, if not with dignity then at least without humiliating himself, and cleared his throat. 

"I'm checking out the owner," he confided immediately, being either far less circumspect than his superior, or assuming Porthos would have already told Athos anyway. Or possibly he was still trying to impress Constance. 

"Her husband was killed the other night, and certain questions have been raised about her reaction to the news."

"Not every husband's a loss," said Constance darkly, having been once briefly and dissatisfyingly married herself.

"No, fair enough, but in that case you wouldn't put on an over-the-top display of grief when you were told, would you?" d'Artagnan argued in a low voice. He frowned. "I need to get a picture of her genuine mood, but technically if I speak to her I should identify myself as a policeman."

"What's her name?" Constance asked.

"Mrs Bowers."

"No, her first name."

“Angela.”

“And her husband’s?”

“Peter,” supplied d’Artagnan obligingly, looking confused. “Why?”

“You’ll see.”

The lady in question was serving a table across the courtyard, and they all studied her covertly. She was a statuesque woman in her late forties, with a shining helmet of lacquered brassy hair that matched the copper kettle sign hanging outside the tearoom.

As she came past with her empty tray, Constance called out to her in a deeply sympathetic tone.

"Angela. Hello, how are you? I was so sorry to hear about Pete, I'd been meaning to drop by again for so long, and you know how it is, you put things off. How are you coping?"

Mrs Bowers looked at first startled, then confused, then mildly panicky as she tried to place Constance and couldn't.

"Oh, well, yes, it was such a shock you know, er - er - anyway, yes, you manage, don't you, life goes on. So to speak." She winced, having realised that life obviously wouldn't go on for the late lamented Peter, but Constance jumped into the breach.

"Ah well, sometimes it's more of a relief isn't it," she said discreetly. "You know what trouble I had with mine, back along. Sometimes it can be a blessing in disguise." 

"More tea, Constance?" Athos murmured, holding out the pot, and Constance handed him her cup, keeping her attention on Mrs Bowers.

"Well, I'm not going to speak ill of the dead Constance," Mrs Bowers said confidingly, laying a hand on her arm. "But you know how it is. I've been running this place practically on my own for so long, and he was away such a lot. I'll manage."

"Let me know if I can help, won't you?" Constance offered, and Mrs Bowers nodded gratefully before making her escape, still looking puzzled. 

Constance sat back and regarded her two companions expectantly.

"I'm impressed," said d'Artagnan. "You had her really believing she knew you."

"People never ever admit to having forgotten you. She was most likely stood there praying she wouldn't have to introduce me to anyone else," Constance said. "Did you notice how she pounced on my name as soon as she heard it?"

"Yes." D'Artagnan slid a look at Athos, who was innocently sipping his tea. "You pair make quite the double act."

"Just like old times," Constance said happily.

"She certainly didn't seem overly gutted, did she?" d'Artagnan pondered. "The constable who broke the news said she was almost in hysterics. Seems to have made a miraculous recovery."

"A lack of conspicuous remorse is hardly grounds to bang her up though, is it?" Athos said. "He was alone when he crashed wasn't he?"

"Yes." D'Artagnan looked thoughtful. "According to his wife, they went to bed together at ten PM as usual, and she didn't notice anything wrong until she woke up the next morning and he wasn't there."

"She did say he was away a lot," Constance reminded them.

"Mmmn. Be interesting to find out where he was going, wouldn't it?"

\--

"I hear you've been assisting with my enquiry," Porthos said that evening, as they ate together at Athos' kitchen table. 

"I'm glad you say assisting, and not interfering," Athos admitted, and Porthos laughed.

"Sounds like it was mostly your mate Constance, anyway. D'Artagnan wouldn't shut up about how great she was." Porthos hesitated. "Actually, he was on at me to ask you something, but I'll totally understand if the answer's no. Would you let him have her number?"

"No."

Porthos nodded philosophically. "Fair enough. I said I'd ask."

"If you want - I can give her _his_ number," Athos offered. "Then it'll be up to her, if she wants to see him."

"Alright. That sounds fair. You, er, reckon he's in with a chance?"

"I'm staying out of it. But I don't mind passing on the number." 

"And what about you?" Porthos grinned. "Am I in with a chance?"

Athos laughed softly. "I think you've already got my number."

Porthos’ grin widened. "Does that mean you might be up for a reprise of last night?" 

"Well, I er, actually I'm still a little sore, to be honest," Athos admitted, going an awkward shade of red. Porthos reached over the table and took his hand.

"No worries. I don’t want you to think I’m a sex pest.” He considered the options. “How would you feel about taking a bath with me instead?"

"Now that sounds like a nice idea." Athos smiled at him gratefully, and Porthos kissed his knuckles.

“I could just go home if you’d rather?”

“No!” Athos pushed back his chair and stood up. “Come on. Bath it is.”

\--

Athos’ tub was a large free-standing slipper-bath, and it accommodated them both with ease. They settled into the steaming water with considerable pleasure, Athos sitting in front of Porthos, leaning back against his chest. 

Porthos sighed, sinking as far down as he could and wrapping his arms around Athos’ chest. “This is nice. I’ve only got a shower in my flat.”

“It was a good idea,” Athos agreed, turning round to kiss him approvingly, then took a harder look at him. Now he’d relaxed and let his guard down, Porthos looked tired and rather drawn. 

“You okay? You look worn out. Has it been awful?”

“Mmn. I’m okay.” Porthos pressed a kiss to Athos’ shoulder, then groaned slightly when Athos turned round again to look at him sceptically. “I don’t want to burden you with it all. Especially after what happened to your fiancée. It can’t be an easy subject for you.”

“It wasn’t. It isn’t. That’s my point Porthos, I know how it feels.”

“It’s hardly the same. I didn’t exactly know these people.”

“On the other hand I only had to deal with it once. Whereas I’m guessing this was hardly your first crash? And besides, I only had to deal with the aftermath. You had to deal with the actual wreckage, I can’t imagine how hideous that must have been.”

“What happened to the other guy?” Porthos asked, suddenly realising that he knew Athos’ fiancée had died, but not the whole story. Athos looked at him quizzically. “The lorry driver?”

Athos hesitated. “He walked away from it.”

Porthos winced, hugging Athos tightly with a stifled exclamation and wishing he hadn’t asked. Athos leaned against his chest, nestling into him.

“For a while I wished he’d died as well,” Athos admitted. “As if that would have somehow made it better. Evened the score. But it wouldn’t have. His brakes failed, it wasn’t his fault. And he has to live with what happened for the rest of his life. As do I.”

“Which is exactly why I don’t want to lay all of my problems on you as well.”

“But that’s what I’m trying to say. Maybe if I’d had someone to talk to it would have been easier.”

Porthos sighed, then smiled, wrapping his arms firmly around Athos’ waist and kissing him.

“Alright. Thank you. I’ll try not to bottle things up, I promise. But it has to go both ways. Is there anything I can help you with?” Athos shook his head, and Porthos nudged him. “I know you’ve been having nightmares.”

Athos hesitated. He really didn’t want to admit the contents of his dreams, knowing perfectly well it would immediately make Porthos clam up again if he thought that anything he’d said had caused them. But there was something else that had been on his mind lately. 

“You know when you asked me if I ever drove while on sedatives?”

“Yeah?” Porthos looked suspicious, but didn’t say anything.

“Well – that wasn’t quite the whole story. I haven’t driven at all since I got here. Every time I get behind the wheel – I just can’t,” Athos admitted. “I was fine at first. You know, afterwards. I even drove out here. But since arriving – I’ve been nowhere. Is it possible to have flashbacks to an event you weren’t present for?” he asked helplessly. “I just – keep thinking about it.”

“I don’t want to push you into something you’re not ready for, but the longer you leave it, the harder it’ll be,” Porthos pointed out. “This is a gorgeous little village but there’s fuck all here. You don’t want to wake up one morning and find you’re trapped.”

“I already am,” Athos said dismally. 

“Would you like me to come with you?” Porthos offered. “Sit in, like? As a passenger? Would that help?”

“Would you?” Athos looked up at him gratefully, and Porthos gave him a squeeze. 

“Course I would.”

They kissed, slowly and warmly, sinking further under the water as they did so. Porthos reached down and shamelessly groped Athos’ balls, making him splutter with laughter. 

“I’m glad I met you,” Porthos murmured happily.

Athos smirked. “You once said you wished you never had.”

“I was being over-dramatic,” Porthos declared with a grin. “Trust me, I am very glad I did.”

\--

This time the carriage was close enough for Athos to hear the snorting of the horses, to smell the stench of the grave. He ran because it was all he could do, because to give in was unthinkable, but he was tiring fast, and he knew the apparition that followed him never would.

“You got who you came for!”

His words fell into empty air, unheeded. 

“Leave me alone!”

Slipping and scrambling, half-blind with fear. Earth under his fingers now when he stumbled, and a fresh spike of fear that this, finally, was the grave, but no, he was running along a track, had been chased from the road into the dark, tight tunnel of the holloway. 

Bare branches curled above him, meeting overhead like talons. Things squirmed in the earth beneath him and he struggled back to his feet, revolted by their touch.

Despite his fall somehow the coach was still some way behind him, and it crossed his mind that he was actually being hunted for sport. Was he being chased – or _followed_? 

\--

Athos woke in the grey light of early dawn and lay there panting and shaken. 

“Fucking hell.” Despite the hour he got up and got dressed, leaving Porthos asleep. 

He’d noticed a disturbing pattern. At first he’d thought it was the sex that was helping him fall sleep so much more easily than usual, but Athos was starting to wonder if it had something to do with the thing hunting him in his dreams. Was it drawing him in so it could resume the chase?

“Don’t be so bloody stupid,” Athos told himself sternly. But he knew there was no way he was risking going back to sleep that night.

\--


	4. Chapter 4

When Porthos came downstairs two hours later he found Athos sitting at the kitchen table, staring into his empty mug.

“All or nothing with you, isn’t it?” Porthos teased, kissing Athos on the top of the head and going to fill the kettle.

“Sleep and I aren’t on the best of terms at the moment,” Athos sighed. “Besides, it’s rude to make you get your own breakfast two mornings in a row.”

Porthos laughed. “I can fend for meself, don’t you worry. Your kitchen’s better stocked than mine, for a start. Catch me paying over three quid for a jar of jam.”

Athos leaned back in his chair and smiled up at him. “You can raid my cupboards any day.”

When Porthos had eaten, Athos walked out to the car with him to see him off. He was just kissing him goodbye when sounds of an altercation drifted down the road towards them, women’s voices raised in a fierce argument.

“What’s going on?” Porthos wondered.

“Sounds like it’s coming from the churchyard.”

Curious, they ran up the hill until they were in sight of the parish church. Outside the south door they beheld the Reverend Aramis d’Herblay vainly attempting to prevent two women from apparently trying to scratch each other’s eyes out.

“Isn’t that Mrs Bowers?” Athos asked in surprise.

“Yes,” said Porthos grimly. “Who’s the other one?”

“Don’t know. Don’t recognise her.”

They walked up the path, unheeded by the scuffling trio.

“Ladies! If you don’t stop this I’m going to have to call the police!” Aramis threatened, having narrowly escaped a black eye from a vicious middle-aged elbow.

“You rang?” Porthos boomed, and everyone actually stopped in surprise and looked at him. He grinned. “Detective Inspector Du Vallon. What’s going on here?”

“This bitch won’t tell me when the funeral is,” declared the unknown woman, and Mrs Bowers looked like she was about to take another swing at her. 

Porthos hastily stepped in between them and looked enquiringly at the vicar, who sighed. 

“I was just discussing arrangements for her husband’s funeral with Mrs Bowers here. Obviously we can’t set a firm date yet as the, er, as he hasn’t been released. Which I attempted to explain when this lady made enquiries, at which point there was something of an altercation.”

“That whore’s got no right coming round here - ”

Porthos swung round and fixed Angela with a look. “Now then Mrs Bowers, how about you go along home and let me sort this out?”

“When are you going to let me bury the poor sod, anyway?”

“Soon as we get the post mortem results.” Porthos gave everybody a bland smile. “There’s a backlog.”

Mrs Bowers, having looked like she was fully prepared to stand there and argue all day, went pale and abruptly turned to march away without another word.

“Right. You next. Who are you and what’s your relationship to the deceased?” Porthos asked the second woman. 

“Evangeline Terry,” she told him with an icy dignity, pulling her dishevelled clothing back into line. “And Peter Bowers was my – well, my lover. He was going to leave her!” she added desperately, as if afraid they’d think it merely a seedy affair. “He loved me. And now he’s dead.” Her face crumpled and Aramis patted her vaguely on the shoulder, hunting out a clean tissue as she started sniffling. 

“Hang on,” Porthos said. “Did his wife know he was leaving her?”

Evangeline nodded. “He rang me. Said he’d finally plucked up the courage to tell her that it was over. He was on his way to me when he – when it happened.” She burst into tears.

Having managed to extract her contact details, Porthos left her in the care of the Reverend and walked slowly back down the path with Athos, deep in thought.

“Did you really have enough grounds to order a post mortem?” Athos asked curiously.

“Routine.”

“No it isn’t.” Athos looked sideways at him. “Not when it’s bloody obvious how someone died. Not unless there’s reasonable grounds for suspicion.”

Porthos stopped walking and laughed in surrender. “Keep forgetting how much you bloody know.” He looked away across the churchyard towards the twice-buried grave of Louis Bourbon. “Maybe you taught me never to ignore someone with a strong hunch about something,” he said softly. 

Athos smiled. “Glad to be of service.” They resumed walking back towards Porthos’ car. “She lied then. Angela Bowers? About knowing her husband had left the house that night?”

“Yeah. Makes you wonder what else she lied about. About being happily married, for one thing.”

“But she still wasn’t in the car with him. Do you think she tampered with it somehow? Cut his brakes?”

Porthos shook his head. “Nah, we went over it. What was left of it. No sign of foul play.”

“Angela and Evangeline,” Athos mused. “A brace of angels.”

“The question is,” Porthos said slowly, “was one of them an angel of death?”

\--

“Sir?”

Porthos looked up later that morning to find d’Artagnan leaning in through the office door, clutching a piece of paper.

“What is it?”

“The PM results have come through on Bowers.”

“Well?” Porthos demanded, guessing from the look on d’Artagnan’s face that it wasn’t going to be straightforward.

“...technically, he died from injuries sustained as a result of the crash.”

Porthos held his hand out for the report sheet. “Technically?”

\--

Athos found himself at a bit of a loose end for the rest of the day. Mid-morning he'd got a text message from Porthos saying that he'd be tied up until late and wouldn't make it over that evening. Combined with an early start the following day, he was intending to go home to his flat instead, which was a lot closer to the police station. 

Mooching aimlessly around the house, Athos was pleased when Trixie turned up, having forgotten it was her day to clean. A compact and energetic Bangladeshi woman, Trixie Evans was married to the local postman, and came in to clean for him once a week.

“Are you keeping this, or is it for the recycling?”

Athos looked up to find Trixie waving Ninon's flyer at him. “Oh. I was thinking of maybe going.” The pagan moot was that night, and with an unexpected evening to himself he'd harboured a vague plan of going along to check it out. 

The recurring nightmare had left him feeling unsettled, and Athos had wondered if some sort of psychic cleansing would help, although he had no idea what that would entail. He could ask the vicar for a blessing he supposed, if the man didn't already think he was barking enough. Athos felt Ninon's circle might be more amenable.

"Were you?" Trixie sounded incredulous and Athos shrugged defensively.

"Maybe. She, er, seems to know her stuff?"

“Ninon de Larroque?” Trixie snorted. “You know her real name’s Jane Webb, don’t you?”

“Is it?” 

“Yeah. She decided that wasn’t exotic enough for somebody running a witchy shop, so she changed it. My husband went to school with her,” Trixie explained with a certain satisfaction. “She asked me to give a talk for their multi-faith group once.”

“Did you?” 

“No chance. Do I look like a performing poodle? Don’t get invited to their tea parties do I, only good enough to clean their bogs the rest of the time. But when they want to feel like they’re being _inclusive_ suddenly it’s different.” The level of disgust with which Trixie managed to imbue the word ‘inclusive’ was truly remarkable, and Athos hid a smile.

“Not for me to tell you what to do. But I’ll tell you this for nothing. She can mystically roll her eyes all she likes, but she’s no more psychic than my mop.”

"Maybe I'll give it a miss." Leaning in the doorway to the kitchen watching Trixie changing the bag in the kitchen bin, Athos was suddenly struck by a thought and bolted upstairs to empty the bin in the bedroom before she got to it, all thoughts of ghostly coaches for now driven from his mind.

\-- 

The group of uniforms gathered at a table in the staff canteen looked up in alarm as the door banged open and DI Du Vallon stuck his head in. 

“Constable! Can I have a word?” he called, beckoning one of their number across with a stern finger.

Elodie exchanged a worried look with her colleagues and hurried out after him.

“Is something wrong sir?” she asked, following him up the corridor.

“No?” Porthos looked at her tight expression and belatedly realised he’d scared the life out of her. “I find myself in need of a female officer,” he explained. “And I thought you might like to be in on this.”

\--

Athos was coming out of the convenience store following a late afternoon biscuit run when he saw the police cars outside the teashop. By this point a considerable crowd of people had gathered to watch the proceedings, and he was just in time to see a blonde policewoman he didn't recognise handing Mrs Bowers into the back of the first car. Porthos and d'Artagnan were standing on the pavement nearby, looking grimly satisfied.

As they were climbing into the car behind, Porthos caught sight of Athos lurking at the back of the group of spectators. The gravity of the situation hardly permitted him to wave, but he acknowledged Athos with a slight jerk of the head and Athos nodded back, presuming that this turn of events explained why Porthos was going to be working late.

Back at home and working his way through the biscuits, Athos checked his email. There was one from Constance, admitting that she’d arranged a date with DS D’Artagnan and Athos snickered to himself. In the café after d’Artagnan had left them, she’d spent most of the following hour listing everything she considered wrong with him, and Athos had suspected then there must be more to it for her to have taken that much notice of the man.

He emailed back to say he was pleased for her, and to categorically refuse to ever go on a double date with them.

The evening dragged without Porthos there, and Athos briefly wondered whether to wander along to join Ninon’s pagan moot gathering after all. But it was cold and raining outside, and he’d lost the conviction that she could help him anyway. In the end, listless apathy won out and he stayed where he was, curled up in the warm and wondering vaguely when he’d finished the biscuits. 

\--

It was somewhere around the middle of the night, when Athos awoke with a start. He lay there, frozen with tension and listening intently, convinced that something had roused him but unsure what. 

At first it felt as if there was a presence in the room with him. Forcing himself to turn his head to look, he wasn't sure if it felt better or worse to confirm he was still alone. The bed beside him was empty tonight, and he missed Porthos' comforting presence.

Unable to just turn over and go back to sleep, something made him push back the covers and climb out of bed. He crossed to the window and looked out, clutching numbly at the windowframe as he beheld the sight that lay before him.

At the end of the path, a huge black coach waited silently in the roadway. Four jet black horses stood before it, harnesses gleaming under the streetlights.

It couldn't be real. He had to be dreaming. Athos made himself look away, screwing his eyes shut and counting to five under his breath. 

Turning back to the window, to his horror Athos found himself now standing instead at the front door. It opened without him touching it, and at the end of the path first the garden gate and then the coach door itself swung open in turn.

Was that a rustling coming from inside? It was almost more of a physical sensation than a sound, that put him in mind of dry leaves, or old velvet. Or perhaps paper-thin skin over dead bones he thought, as something that might once have been a hand emerged from the shadows within and beckoned to him.

Athos found himself drawn inexorably down the path. He wanted to scream, to run, to fight, but his body was rigid with terror and he knew there was nothing in this world that could prevent him from being dragged inside.

As he reached the gate though, another figure stepped out of the shadows and stood squarely in front of him. Athos could see it only in silhouette but he made out the shape of an old man, wearing a flat cap and brandishing a stick. This he now lifted in remonstration and Athos watched as the figure railed fearlessly at the coach and its unseen occupant. 

To add to the whole sense of unreality the entire argument was carried out in total silence; Athos was unable to hear a single word the figure was saying whilst able to see that on some plane of existence he was clearly shouting furiously. 

Whatever he said it must have had an effect, for abruptly the coach door banged shut, the horses stamped and snorted, the whole contraption lurched forwards - and just like that between one step and the next, that it was gone.

The half-seen figure made a dismissive and unmistakeably rude gesture after it. Athos leaned forwards, curious to see the face of his saviour as the figure began to turn towards him – and abruptly found himself sitting up in bed.

When he’d finally stopped shaking, Athos made himself get up and go to the window, but despite his fears that the whole thing was about to play out again, the road outside was reassuringly empty.

He stared down at the spot on the path where the mysterious figure had stood its ground and defended him. “Wilfred? Was that you?” 

Beneath the shadow of the flat cap had been a spot of smouldering orange, and what Athos had briefly in his fear taken for a demonic eye he now realised had been the glowing hot bowl of a pipe. 

It had been a dream, but it had felt so vividly real that even now he had to repeatedly touch the things around him to make sure they were solid, that he was really now awake, and safe. 

_Had_ something happened? Had the cottage’s previous owner really stepped out to protect him? Had it even had anything to do with Athos, or had the old man merely been defending his property from another form of intruding ghost? Either way, Athos was grateful to him, and of the fact it suggested Wilfred had seemingly accepted his right to be here.

He finally got back into bed, weighing the bottle of sleeping pills in his hand for some time before setting it back on the nightstand. Unassisted, sleep took a good while returning, but when it did it was blessedly deep and dreamless.

\--

The following morning Athos slept late, but when he finally woke up for once he felt quite refreshed. It took him a while to realise that one of the reasons for this was that the lingering sense of oppression he’d been carrying around for the last few days had lifted. He found it hard enough to sleep at the best of times, and being afraid of what might have been waiting for him once he dropped off probably hadn’t been helping.

His mood rose further when he received a message from Porthos asking if he was up to a visit that evening. Porthos had warned him frequently that his job would end up getting in the way, and while Athos had promised faithfully never to let it become a problem he was still secretly glad that whatever had gone down at the teashop apparently wasn’t going to tie him up for days. 

When Porthos arrived, late but not ridiculously so, he was in a buoyant mood.

“Looks like you’ve been having an eventful week,” Athos probed, not sure whether Porthos would be able or willing to share any details, but intensely curious as to the outcome.

Porthos eyed him for a moment as he weighed things up, then decided he trusted Athos enough to keep his mouth shut where it counted.

“She poisoned him,” he declared. “The doting wife. Digitalis in his dinner. Bloody foxglove!”

“What are you saying? That caused the crash?”

“He was hallucinating. No wonder he was driving erratically.” Porthos gave a harsh laugh. “God, can you believe I was actually considering the fact he might have really seen a ghostly carriage?”

“It’s still not impossible,” Athos ventured, and Porthos laughed again, shaking his head.

“I’m sorry. I know this has probably been weird for you, what with what happened to your fiancée and stuff, but there was nothing supernatural about it. From what we can gather, having now formally interviewed Ms Evangeline Terry, he’d intended to tell his wife he was leaving her that evening. When Evangeline received a text message saying he was on his way to her, she assumed that he’d finally done it. Pity the poor sod wasn’t a bit more suspicious when his wife reacted to the news by cooking him a nice plate of dinner.” 

“Isn’t that a bit of an extreme reaction?” Athos asked. “To kill someone just for leaving? From what she said to Constance it didn’t sound like she was struggling to live without him.”

“Evangeline reckoned that she’d known about the affair for some time, but was choosing to ignore it,” Porthos said. “But when he was actually going to leave her – well. Turns out the business and building was all in his name. At the very least they’d have had to sell up and split the proceeds. Angela Bowers was about to lose everything she’d spent years building up from nothing.”

“So she poisoned him?”

We checked the place out, she’s got an entire border of foxgloves growing in that pretty little tearoom garden of hers. Would have been the closest thing to hand.” 

“Can you prove it was her that gave it to him though?” Athos asked, mind automatically turning over the legal angles.

“She’s admitted it,” Porthos said with satisfaction. “Although she’s arguing she’d only meant to make him ill, teach him a lesson like.”

Athos shook his head despairingly. “If only people realised what they could get away with if they just held their nerve and kept their mouth shut.”

“Oi. You’re supposed to be on my side,” Porthos laughed. “She’s being charged with his murder, but I don’t know if it’ll stick. Technically it was the crash that killed him, it just depends if we can prove the dose would have been lethal if he’d lived long enough to die from it. If you see what I mean. Either way we’ll get her for manslaughter, and for the others as well.” Porthos winced. “I hate to say it, but the fact that other people died will help our case. Jury’ll be less sympathetic.”

“Never let it be said British justice is impartial,” Athos said wryly.

“You’d know,” Porthos jibed.

“Not any more.”

“What are you going to do with yourself Athos? You’ll have to do _something_ with the rest of your life.”

“You sound like Constance.”

“Well, she’s right.”

“She called d’Artagnan, did he tell you? They’re going for a drink.”

“Tell me? I had a hard time getting him to shut up about it. And stop changing the subject, I’m not that easily distracted.”

Athos sighed. “I don’t know. I think I need to sort myself out first. I clearly still have a few issues.”

“You been having more nightmares?” Porthos asked gently.

Athos considered, then slowly shook his head. “I think they at least may have come to an end.”

“Nothing to stop us having an early night then?” Porthos said slyly, sliding an arm around Athos’ waist and pulling him close.

“Nothing,” Athos smiled, lifting his face up to be kissed. “Nothing at all.”

\--


End file.
